


A Game of Obedience and Punishment

by Luna_Writes_Stuff



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: F/M, Sub Min Yoongi | Suga, this was my first try at writing anything BTS related lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17701232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Writes_Stuff/pseuds/Luna_Writes_Stuff
Summary: Yoongi and his domme [you, the reader] have some fun - overwhelming debauchery all around!Warnings:Bondage [belt used as handcuffs], edging, overstimulation, breathplay, facesitting, hair pulling, begging, tears, and honestly just lots of oral shenanigans in generalWritten on 06/30/18





	A Game of Obedience and Punishment

You’re technically not dressed for the occasion, t-shirt and shorts all you’re wearing, and yet his gaze clings to you all the same, drinks you in hungrily. When your hands begin to unbuckle his belt he tilts his head in an infuriatingly attractive manner, crosses his arms and lets you slide the belt completely out of his pants.

Though Yoongi goes along with you willingly, sly smirk on his lips, you know he’s going to be nowhere near as obedient once the belt is wrapped around his wrists. He can over-power you and that’s why he gives up complete control so easily in this one instant, letting you put him at your mercy willingly before he acts out, tests your dominance. His own dark shirt is shed and left somewhere near the door, to be worried about later.

The belt you’ve pulled from around his waist is small – his waist is  _small_  – so it’s snug around his wrists, and when he tests them he finds he really has no room to move at all. His gaze switches from it to you as you instruct him to kneel before coming to sit on his lap – he winces slightly but adjusts quickly, and you wait those few seconds for him to get comfortable before launching into the fun.

“Don’t say anything unless spoken to.” Your order is dropped coldly, but not without emotion – he doesn’t smirk at it but he doesn’t bend to your will immediately either, meeting your gaze evenly, challengingly.

You grab a fistful of his dark hair and yank it away from you, exposing his neck and dragging out a pained moan all at the same time. His neck was expansive and perfectly unmarked, and though off-limits for obvious reasons you don’t see the problem in teasing him about it.

“Look at you.. not a single mark in sight. Anyone could look at you and not know you belonged to someone.” You click your tongue softly, one hand running feather-light over his adam’s apple while the other is still fisted tightly in his hair, keeping his head craned back. He’s being dutifully silent aside from his panting breaths, but when you lean in and press your lips to his neck he makes the smallest of sounds that cuts off suddenly, most likely afraid you’ll reprimand him for it.

You don’t just kiss at his neck, you fucking lave your tongue over it, drinking up the taste of his skin, leaving extremely gentle nips and sucks that just tease him, have no chance of leaving any marks or giving any visceral pleasure. He’s beginning to squirm under you, half-hard cock pressing against your clothed core in a way that no doubt frustrates him even more, and when you pull away he’s biting his bottom lip between his teeth sharply.

“Is that what my baby wants? Wants me to mark  _all_  over his neck, make sure everyone knows he’s mine?” You’d never do it of course – Yoongi’s lust-driven mind is all too quick to nod, to pull against the iron grip in his hair to show his agreeance – even if he would be content with wearing scarves, turtlenecks, and makeup to cover them for as long as they were there.

Instead you release his hair, moving away – Yoongi groans softly at you when you leave, not quite whining yet, but not too far from it. His dark eyes watch you as you maneuver his makeshift handcuffs lower, and he understands your intention and moves to lay down, not quite obeying you willingly, forced instead by the awkward position the belt had put him at.

“You can speak now.” You say to him while you’re busy making sure he’s propped up on pillows, and it’s barely out of your mouth before Yoongi is opening his, the cocky little shit.

“I want you to touch me.” He says it so blatantly, so self-assuredly and without any ounce of submission – you gaze at him coldly but he only stares back confidently, undeterred.

“Do  _demanding_  boys get what they want?” You ask, and he swallows thickly, eyes darker than they were before, chin held at such an angle that you just know he’s challenging your authority. What a brat.

Your fingers seek out his neck and his brow furrows moments before the pads of your fingers come into contact with his pulse – never too hard, never pressing down enough to actually block airflow, but just enough that it’s hard for him to swallow, that his eyelids flutter and he gets ever-so-slightly light-headed. The rate at which his defiance disappears is absolutely breath-taking, his expression softening, brow smoothing out. His entire body, which moments ago had been crackling with a defiant and almost angry energy, is now buzzing with a sort of soft, sensuous acceptance.

When you remove your hand you thread your fingers through his hair again, extremely close to the scalp – it would really hurt if you pulled at that distance, but you have no desire or plans to. It’s the mere thought that gets to Yoongi, and you notice with both satisfaction and a sort of proud love that his pupils have blown noticeably wider in these last forty or so seconds, his visage more glassy and detached than what it had been before.

“I said, do demanding boys get what they want?”

Your repeated question goes unanswered for a long few seconds, Yoongi’s throat working furiously, breathing uneven and mouth dry, but he eventually manages a soft “no” and you release his hair again, smoothing your thumb along the delicate skin under his eye.

“That’s right. If I want to go this entire time without ever touching your pretty cock, then I will.” Your words are met with something that’s not quite alarm, but close to it, a realization that you could easily do that if you wanted to, if he acted out enough. “But I’m not planning on it. And you won’t give me any reason to do differently, right Yoongi?”

His name, not an affectionate nickname, makes him jerk to attention – it’s the direct attention that makes him eager to please, even if he was clearly still entertaining thoughts of disobeying at times (and you knew he would). His name was never used as a punishment, never as a way to tell him he’d done something wrong – that was easily discerned by your expression, which would blank. No, his name was almost a reward, breaking through to him, to reach him, reminding him that he was still  _Yoongi_ , he was still himself, and he still belonged to you and vice versa.

He doesn’t respond to your last rhetorical question – it would be lying, and he didn’t particularly like lying so blatantly to you, an ethical decision that was bolstered by your hatred of him doing just that. You hadn’t entertained the thought that he  _wouldn’t_  disobey in some way, he knew that, so why answer at all?

You’ve moved down to his knees now, sitting lightly on his thighs – he’s evidently harder than before, and you suck in a breath at it, tracing heavy fingers over the sizeable outline. He bucks his hips towards your hand at the first sign of intimate touch  _down there_  but you press his hips back into the sheets firmly.

“Ahh, baby, you got so worked up already.” He’s not as hard as could be, you can tell at a glance, but it’s noticeably more than he had been before. “You look good in these pants, you know, but I bet they don’t feel very good on you anymore, huh?”

Yoongi has ridiculously skinny legs, and therefore his pants had to be sized accordingly, but it also meant that these types of jeans weren’t very forgiving if he got too riled up. He doesn’t answer you but you don’t really mind, popping the button of them and sliding the zipper down slowly.

Just glancing up at him proves your earlier suspicion – he’s already gaining some of that bratty self-assuredness back in his gaze, but he has the smarts to look grateful as you hook your fingers in the vacated belt loops and slide them down to his knees, and you’re sure the gratefulness is genuine once you shimmy off of him and drag them all the way off, leaving them in a heap somewhere on the floor. His underwear are another thing entirely, and you aren’t sure if you want to leave them on or off. It was always so nice to see how dirty he could make them with his pre-cum, but you figure for tonight’s plans they might as well be gone too, so they join his pants on the floor.

“You’re looking awfully smug for someone who isn’t in control, baby.” You warn as you climb back up his legs, opting to sit beside his waist this time. It’s clear he has no idea what you’re planning, but he just smiles at you. Not a demure smile either, one of his sly, I’m-getting-what-I-want-either-way smiles.

“Well –“ Whatever he’s said is lost to you as you swoop in to place two fingers near his tongue – he’s quick to close his mouth at first but freezes just before he bites you. He may be disobedient, but he wasn’t  _stupid_. He sits… sort of obediently with his mouth open, your index and middle finger pressing gently down on his tongue to keep him from speaking.

“You’re going to suck on my fingers just like they’re a cock, alright? Just like giving a blowjob.” Your words are met with a shocked expression, color flooding his cheeks – you file that reaction away for later, amused. It was rare that he was surprised by things in bed anymore, and rarer still when he reacted so positively to them. “That means no teeth – you know that, right? I bet if I had one you’d suck it all day, wouldn’t you?”

It’s meant to sound like a compliment and he clearly takes it as one, moaning quietly around your fingers in what looks to be both agreeance to your order and to your question. You test the waters a bit slowly, tapping the bottom of his chin after placing one more finger in his mouth to get him to close his beautiful lips fully. You’re pleasantly surprised by how much he seems to enjoy just this simple act, and his tongue is absolutely  _wicked_  in how talented it is, pressing against the pads and sides of your fingers expertly even as you control the pace. Another clear sign of how he’s enjoying it is how well he’s obeyed, keeping his teeth away from your skin.

“Alright, Yoongi –“ His name and he’s flushing again, pleased to be recognized but also opening eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed to focus on you. “If you can’t breathe or need to safeword, bite my fingers.” You already know his brow is going to furrow before it does, but you still find the habit cute. “You can’t move your hands and you can’t speak – I don’t care how hard you bite, you can draw blood if you need to, I won’t care. I need to be able to know, okay?”

You pull your fingers out of his mouth so he can speak – though the brat makes sure he sucks on them as you do so – spit-slicked fingers resting against his cheek in a naughty, messy way that flusters him a small bit.

“Okay, I will.” He promises, and you lean down to capture his lips, letting him devour the taste of you hungrily, not bothering to stop him from doing it. He needed to trust you that you’d stop if he safeworded (or bit, in this case), and in turn you needed to trust him to do those things when necessary. When you pull away he doesn’t even have time to protest before you fingers are back at his mouth, three this time instead of two, and he accepts them  _almost_  eagerly, completely unaware to any other thing you were planning.

When you fist his dick he jerks suddenly, mouth dropping open (most likely to avoid biting you) and he fucking  _whines_  around your fingers, a delicious sound that makes his eyes snap open, looking at you for an explanation on what you were doing.

“What baby, you didn’t think I’d  _forgotten_  about how smug you were starting to look? Keep sucking.” Your order is met with slight hesitance until your hand slides down his shaft again and he instantly throws himself back into what he was doing, sucking and lapping at your fingers almost as dutifully as he would if he was eating you out.

He comes to complete hardness quickly, quicker than you think he’s ever done before, and his head has tilted back as you continue to finger-fuck his mouth, eyes open but staring glassily at the ceiling. He’s blushing such a dark red that you’re almost concerned he can’t breathe, but from the way he’s moaning around your fingers you know he can, know he’s probably just embarrassed with himself and how weak he is to this type of humiliation, this type of utter  _pleasure_  that has gripped his body. You’d never tried this with him before but clearly you’d have to do it more often.

His hips start twisting under the hand that’s pumping him and your fingers are getting more and more dirtied with pre-cum, the glide become easier and easier – you know he’s so close to orgasming, apparent in the pitch of his moans, the way he thrusts up into your hand, the way his mouth has started faltering on your fingers.

His jaw falls shut a minute amount, top of his teeth grazing your fingers ever so slightly – it’s not a bite and it feels pleasurable, in a tingly sort of way, but you remember your rules well and pull your fingers out of his mouth anyway, removing the hand around his leaking cock too. He thrashes against his restraints at the sudden denial of his orgasm, leather cutting into his skin and making him moan in a mixture of frustration and pure pleasure. His cock is red and shiny and sits up against his stomach, just  _aching_  to be touched.

“You broke the rules, baby. I said no teeth unless it was a bite. Were you biting?” You know he wasn’t, and he knows that you know, but he still shakes his head anyway. He was so bratty, especially when denied an orgasm.

“No – no,  _fuck_  no, of course not, I want to fucking –“ His words are all demands and curses and you cover his mouth firmly with one hand, quieting him, and he’s forced to sigh sharply through his nose to try and dissipate some of the frustration at being denied.

You don’t say anything and he watches you quietly – your expression hasn’t blanked but you’ve gone silent, and he knows he’s messed up marginally (which is still too much). When you finally remove your hand he keeps his lips together, unable to hide his surprise when you go right back to his cock and begin pumping it again, your now free hand rubbing open-palmed across the tip.

His orgasm may have faded away but it’s quick to come back, slamming him to the brink of falling apart in mere seconds, sensitive and every feeling heightened by the weight of your gaze on his face. He’s not sure why you’ve continued if you’d been unhappy with him breaking one of your rules, but he definitely isn’t going to fucking complain about  _that_.

He’s barely able to get the word “I’m” out before your hands are gone and his head is dropping back into the pillows with a rough, broken groan, eyes clenched shut as the blissful feeling seems to fade away in waves of pleasure, arms straining against the belt but not having any effect.

The third time you do this he’s close to crying, and the fourth time the tears really do slip out, frustration and the blissful pain of not orgasming mixing and pushing his body to its physical limit. You’re watching him closely as he breathes heavily, analyzing whether or not the tears are good or bad – when you place an open palm on his stomach comfortingly and he lets out a shaky moan at that simple touch alone, you know they’re good tears.

It’s when you start shifting your hands lower, fingers kneading in the supple flesh of his ass that his eyes snap open, tugging harshly, almost in a panic, at the belt.

“No,  _please_..” He begs without any reservations this time, voice cracking, fingers curling tightly around the harsh leather around his wrists. His hips twist and try to escape your hands, your fingers drifting closer to his hole, torturously slow –

Yoongi makes a sort of choked off sobbing sound, a sound you’ve long since come to recognize as being a prelude to his safeword, and even though you don’t mind  _at all_  when he safewords you also don’t want to give him a reason to.

“Too much? Alright, some other night then, darling boy.” You soothe softly, and he blinks dark eyes at you, tears clinging to his lashes but no longer flooding them. He himself hasn’t recognized the way his body signifies he’s reaching his breaking point, and he stares at you with a look of wonder every time you preempt him. “But I don’t want to hear any more complaints, alright?”

“Okay – yes, okay, thank you –“ He’s quick to agree with whatever you want, and you know he’s going to break that rule in a manner of minutes, but that’s part of the fun with Yoongi. Then again, he’d been broken so far already that he might,  _just might_  be able to keep his bratty complaints at bay for the rest of the night.

“You just want to cum, don’t you baby? You’ve been so good, put up with me denying you it for so long..” Your words are met with something suspiciously close to a whine but pulled back at the last second – he had almost forgotten the no complaints rule already, and instead just nods his head, blinking rapidly drying eyes at you. “But I’ve been doing all the work.. shouldn’t I get to cum first?”

You let him think that one through, fingers tracing distracting patterns on his thighs – it takes him all of ten seconds before he’s nodding frantically again, the urge to cum getting pushed aside in favor of making you cum. He’s usually not so easily ready to reciprocate, especially when he’s been edge for so long, but in this position he knows the only way he can do it is to use his tongue, and that’s something he’s always ready to do.

Your shorts are pulled off quickly, and from the way he’s staring at you the shirt and bra are discarded too, if not to tease him than to simply be rid of the latter item. When you crawl onto his chest he catches his bottom lip between his teeth again, this time in anticipation, and when you climb higher and then lower your core to his face he surges up to meet you, tongue delving deep the second he can.

The way he goes at oral shakes you to your very core, lights every fiber in your body on fire. He moans when your thighs clench around his head, the vibrations shooting straight through you, and you’re already so wet for him that his face is no doubt drenched in the first few seconds. He clearly enjoys it, presses his face against you hard, eyes shut but mouth open wide, a bit short of breathe but definitely not complaining. He rips noises from you that you can’t help but let out, and he echoes them all back loudly, hips rolling upwards, searching for a friction unobtainable.

‘Eager’ is not even close to the right word to describe Yoongi when it comes to this, and you grip the headboard his hands are bound to, bending your forehead down to rest on them – the touch electrifies something in him and his mouth is suddenly latched onto your clit, flicking and sucking at it in a manner that  _must_  be professional, and at this point you’re not even sure who’s dominating who anymore, open mouth pressed against his knuckles, one hand buried in his hair.

Your orgasm slams into you so hard you can’t even make a proper sound, eyes clenching shut and muscles clenching around nothing, and you grind against Yoongi’s face unashamedly, twitching at the way he laps it all up instantly. In seconds though he’s moaning loudly against you, into you, almost as if he’s forgotten how loud his voice can truly be, and as his feet twist in the blankets and his hips jerk up you know he’s come untouched, directly after making you cum. The sentiment makes your heart hurt, and you brush an affectionate hand over his forehead when you climb off of him, your juices smeared along his lips and the bottom of his chin.

“What a  _good_  boy, taking so much pleasure in making me feel good.” You wrap your hand back around his cock, smeared with pre-cum and semen, and he struggles to open his eyes, to stare down at you.

“Please, don’t..” His voice is weak with lust and sounds even deeper than usual as he pleads with you, but you may him no mind and set a bruisingly fast pace immediately. He’s loud in the way he responds, trying to twist away from you, tears dripping down his cheeks again, but somewhere in the middle his pleas shift from sounding tortured to sound unbelievably pleasured, the word “please” twisted from one begging you to stop to one begging you to  _never_  stop.

He can’t even manage a moan when he orgasms again, just a deep, choked groan that gets stuck in his throat as his body spasms with the pure aftershocks of the force of it all. Your hand is absolutely coated with his release now, and when you move up to his head he listlessly gazes at it. You know he doesn’t particularly like the taste of his own cum, but from the way his mouth hangs open you’re incredibly close to making him suck it off – instead you smear it along his cheek, mixing it with your own juices and his tears.

His breathing is heavy as you undo the belt and check his wrists – dark red lines dot them and you massage the skin reverently, working to help him regain proper blood-flow. From experience you knew the red lines would fade away after a couple of hours, but you still press kisses to them anyway, every haphazard one strung across the tender skin of wherever he’d twisted his wrist into the leather.

He’s sweaty and generally a mess, and you kiss his brow and promise you’ll be back soon before disappearing to the bathroom to get warm, wetted towels to clean him off with. He clearly has no intention of moving, in the exact same position when you come back as he’d been when you left. He still doesn’t move as you gently clean his face, his stomach, his – well, his everything, virtually. He had a knack for being an extremely messy sub.

You drop another kiss onto his nose before you leave (and when he shifts away from it with a grumble you’re delighted he’s gaining his energy back) and by the time you’re back and in one of his t-shirts he’s curled up in an almost-ball, too tired or too lazy to reach for the covers.

You do it for him as you crawl into bed, making a mental note to change the sheets tomorrow. He’s softened considerably, nestling into your chest at the first chance, making an appreciative sound as he realizes you’re wearing one of his shirts, deceptively strong arm slung around you to hold you close to him (or him close to you). He’s tired and all he wants is a nap and the way you card your fingers gently through his hair, legs entangling with his, face buried in your breasts and your smile buried in his hair.

“You’re so talented, Yoongi. So fucking good at everything you do. I’m so lucky.” Your words are softly-spoken so as to not break the comfortable silence, and Yoongi doesn’t respond but tightens his hold on you, presses a kiss against your breastbone in way of thanks, a loving (and sleepy) gesture to show that the sentiment was returned ten-fold.


End file.
